Part 2 (1/2)

”Oh, well”--she controlled herself with difficulty. ”Really. Are you?

I--” She moved; away from the ticket boy and lowered her voice. ”I am Miss Schlegel's aunt. I ought to introduce myself, oughtn't I? My name is Mrs. Munt.”

She was conscious that he raised his cap and said quite coolly, ”Oh, rather; Miss Schlegel is stopping with us. Did you want to see her?”

”Possibly.”

”I'll call you a cab. No; wait a mo--” He thought. ”Our motor's here.

I'll run you up in it.”

”That is very kind.”

”Not at all, if you'll just wait till they bring out a parcel from the office. This way.”

”My niece is not with you by any chance?”

”No; I came over with my father. He has gone on north in your train.

You'll see Miss Schlegel at lunch. You're coming up to lunch, I hope?”

”I should like to come UP,” said Mrs. Munt, not committing herself to nourishment until she had studied Helen's lover a little more. He seemed a gentleman, but had so rattled her round that her powers of observation were numbed. She glanced at him stealthily.

To a feminine eye there was nothing amiss in the sharp depressions at the corners of his mouth, or in the rather box-like construction of his forehead. He was dark, clean-shaven, and seemed accustomed to command.

”In front or behind? Which do you prefer? It may be windy in front.”

”In front if I may; then we can talk.”

”But excuse me one moment--I can't think what they're doing with that parcel.” He strode into the booking-office, and called with a new voice: ”Hi! hi, you there! Are you going to keep me waiting all day? Parcel for Wilc.o.x, Howards End. Just look sharp!”

Emerging, he said in quieter tones: ”This station's abominably organised; if I had my way, the whole lot of 'em should get the sack.

May I help you in?”

”This is very good of you,” said Mrs. Munt, as she settled herself into a luxurious cavern of red leather, and suffered her person to be padded with rugs and shawls. She was more civil than she had intended, but really this young man was very kind. Moreover, she was a little afraid of him; his self-possession was extraordinary. ”Very good indeed,” she repeated, adding: ”It is just what I should have wished.”

”Very good of you to say so,” he replied, with a slight look of surprise, which, like most slight looks, escaped Mrs. Munt's attention.

”I was just tooling my father over to catch the down train.”

”You see, we heard from Helen this morning.”

Young Wilc.o.x was pouring in petrol, starting his engine, and performing other actions with which this story has no concern. The great car began to rock, and the form of Mrs. Munt, trying to explain things, sprang agreeably up and down among the red cus.h.i.+ons. ”The mater will be very glad to see you,” he mumbled. ”Hi! I say. Parcel. Parcel for Howards End. Bring it out. Hi!”

A bearded porter emerged with the parcel in one hand and an entry book in the other. With the gathering whir of the motor these e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns mingled: ”Sign, must I? Why the--should I sign after all this bother?

Not even got a pencil on you? Remember next time I report you to the station-master. My time's of value, though yours mayn't be. Here”--here being a tip.

”Extremely sorry, Mrs. Munt.”

”Not at all, Mr. Wilc.o.x.”